Hetalia A to Z
by Kanki Youji
Summary: A collection of Hetalia drabbles, travelling along the alphabet. Word suggestions welcome! Pairings will vary, ratings subject to change. Up now: W - Waiting. "What happened? Nothing. She's still waiting."
1. Alone

**A/N: **Okay, my first dip into the Hetalia fandom as far as writing goes... And I'm starting off with something big. A collection of drabbles that go along the alphabet. I'd really appreciate any and all feedback I can get, as I've never written anything for Hetalia before and am pretty sure I'm gonna screw at least SOMETHING (probably Russia because I sadly fail at Ivan) up.

Anywho...

On to the story, yes?

* * *

By all rights he should've been smiling. Grinning ear to ear, laughing and dancing with his states in this biggest celebration of his young life. First year as a country, his first birthday, he should be in the middle of everything, being awesome and doing what he did best - being the life of the party. He should be dancing about in circles with Virginia and clapping as Delaware did that funny high-step thing he called a dance.

Should've been, but wasn't.

Instead Alfred was off at the edge of the group, looking off over the sea at a land he couldn't see. Ignoring his party guests - his party, his birthday, his celebration, thrown in his honor of the absolute freedom he had finally won.

Because now he knew the price of that absolute freedom.

He was absolutely, terribly, alone.

* * *

**A/N:** Well? How'd I do? Please drop me a line with anything I might be able to improve, yes?

Next chapter is: B - Bubbles  
Feliciano was always so childish, but... that wasn't always a bad thing.  
N. ItalyGermany fluff

I don't have a letter C yet. Suggestions?

Kanki out!


	2. Bubbles

A/N: This could be better. A lot better. I promise you I can -probably- actually write Germany, and I /know/ I can actually write Italy. I just… can't write fluff. Not right now, anyway. You'll get some later on, I promise - H is planned and something that I am certain I'll be able to write some good fluff for, after all - but… I don't know. This didn't come out at all as I expected, and is just proof that I need to get back into the practice of writing happy things. That's all.

Anyway, sorry for the length, and sorry for the overall forced happy of it. I tried, I really did.

Please to enjoy!

- Kanki

* * *

"Ve~ Germany! Germany! Come see!"

Ludwig sighed. What was it now? Whatever it was, it could wait. He had work to do. Work that didn't involve listening to frivolous Italians. So he grumbled out something that sounded vaguely like 'not now, Italy' and went back to work.

"Germany! Germany, come see!"

He sighed.

"Pleeeeeeeeaaaaaaasssseeeee?"

He stood up from his chair and went to the doorway, annoyance clear on his usually strictly guarded features. "What is it, Italy?"

"I can't tell you, you have to see it! It's no fun if you don't come see it!"

"I don't have time for fun, I have to work."

"You never have time for fun!"

"Of course I don't. We're in a war, Italy! Or had you forgotten? SOME of us have to work. We can't surrender all day like you do!"

"Why not?"

"We just can't! Now leave me be."

"Awwwwww."

But, thankfully, the Italian was quiet after that.

For a time.

Ludwig had managed to get half-way through what was sure to be a very important, not-to-be-ignored, and filled with orders letter when he heard a high-pitched sound very much like a shriek coming from where he had left the annoying, in-the-way, useless, rather dim Feliciano. Who he was most certainly not worried about in the least. No, it was only the fact that they were allies, that caused him to dash out of his office and over to where he heard the sound so fast that he knocked over his chair and forgot to shut the door. It was definitely not because of any fondness he felt towards the smaller nation. Of course not. He didn't care, not really, and even if he had they were allies and at war and it wouldn't be right, and he boss would disapprove. So of course it had nothing to do with any non-existent feelings that he didn't hold.

Still, whatever his motivations, he bolted out of his office and down the hall - completely un-worried, only doing his job and checking up on his ally, nothing more.

So, when it turned out the 'shriek' would be better described as a 'shriek-like explosion of giggling laughter' it is easy to imagine the irritated lecture Ludwig then found building up within him. He had opened his mouth to deliver this lecture - one which would surely chasten the nation against such acts in the future, and which would surely involve lots of shouting and generally taking out all the annoyances he had suffered the past week on the nation - he was stopped by that damnable wide smile spreading across Italy's face.

"Germany! You came to see!"

And now he was doing that thing where he clung to Germany's arm, smiled, and made that weird 've' noise that Ludwig had yet to discover the origins of.

"I did not come to see. I came to… uhm..." damnit, why wasn't he better at lying? "To get you to go out and train. You need to stop wasting your time like this, after all." Yes, that was a perfectly good excuse.

"But… Germany, we've already trained today. It's nearly time for my siesta!" Italy pointed out.

… okay, maybe it wasn't the best excuse Ludwig had ever come up with after all.

"Anyway, now that you're here, do you want to see?"

"Want to see what, Italy?"

"What I wanted to show you, of course!"

A sigh. "Fine. What is it?"

"No! You have to sound enthusiastic! Tell me you want to see!"

And now he was glaring, but the little nation seemed not to notice at all, and Ludwig was still trying to pry him off his arm, but it wasn't working at all, so maybe he'd have to give in, just a little bit, just this time.

"Okay, Italy. I want to see what you have to show me."

"Do you really want to see?"

"Yes, just show me already!"

"Are you suuuuuuure?"

"Show me or I'm leaving!"

And, of course, Feliciano pouted at that, and his expression was so sad that Ludwig almost - almost - gave in, but not quite.

"Just… just show me, okay? I … I really want to see… whatever it is you have to show me."

Okay, so he totally cracked under Feliciano's - most likely faked - pout.

His questions about the truth in the pout were answered as Feliciano dropped the sad airs and happily pulled out a small, bright pink bottle which Ludwig would later recognize as a Mr. Bubble bubble bottle, inserted his finger, drew out the florescent yellow wand and blew big, opaque bubbles right into Ludwig's face, grinning that big, stupid grin - which he was not fond of at all - and giggling that high-pitched giggle - which was utterly annoying and in no way endearing - the whole time.

Ludwig was all set to yell at him for that to, but just like his previous shouting lecture got cut off, he couldn't bring himself to reprimand the Italian when he looked that happy, so he just looked gruff and generally grumpy and allowed Feliciano to drag him about and display his bubble blowing skills all over the house.

And thus he managed to waste and entire two hours blowing bubbles with his frivolous Italian ally instead of answering the sure to be of upmost importance letter from his boss.

Oh well. The letter could wait, anyway.

* * *

A/N: Well, there ya go. Like it? Hate it? Tell me in a review, yes? I love feedback, and I can always use it, especially when entering a new fandom like I am here.

Coming Soon:

C - Curse

There's something wrong with France's wine…

No pairing.

Crack, I suppose?


	3. Curse

A/N: This one is dedicated to Penandpaper67, who gave me the word. Thanks to everyone else who gave me suggestions.

Please to enjoy!

- Kanki

---

"It's a curse. It has to be! I mean… what else could do something like this?"

"A curse? Curses don't exist, Matthew."

"But…. Arthur said…."

"You listen to him to much. You forget, mon amour, that Arthur also says that fairies, ghosts, and unicorns exist. Tres [CRAZY], non?"

"… true, eh..."

"See? So it couldn't have been a curse, because they don't exist, just like the fairies, ghosts, and unicorns."

"So…. If curses aren't real, what turned all your wine into water, Francis?"

"… … … stupid Arthur."

---

A/N: So, basically, Arthur put a curse on France that turned all his wine into water. A reverse miracle. Especially fitting because of the oh-so-loving nickname of 'Wine Bastard' that Arthur gave to France.

Up Next: D - … I don't have a word yet… suggestions, anyone?


	4. Dependant

**A/N:** _Yes, I can't write fluff. I know. Please don't hate me? Sorry it took so long to get this in! I was trying to write GermanyItaly and… it wasn't working. So I wrote ChibitaliaHRE instead, only from Italy's grown up point of view, but you don't get to see that till 'S' 'Story', since I can't put it under 'F' 'Fairytale' because I want to write a… non conventional Canada type piece under 'Forgotten' for that. Because Psycho!Canada has eaten my brain._

* * *

"This sucks!"

"I fail to see how that particular term applies, Alfred. You should at least try not to mutilate my language."

"Well then it stinks!"

And Arthur's opening his mouth and Alfred's just so sure he's going to make some snooty comment about how he doesn't smell anything so he adds a hasty, "I mean, it's just totally not awesome. At all."

Arthur almost laughs at that, which is so shocking that the hero nation doesn't say anything for a good minute, which might be a record for him, not including pouting because lord knows that boy could pout for days, at least when he was younger. He could have won a gold medal in sulking.

"And why, pray tell, is this so 'not awesome'?"

Now Alfred's shooting Arthur this 'do you really have to ask' look before he interrupts his not-quite-glare to sneeze so forcefully he knocks himself back a step.

"Why do you think? A hero doesn't get sick! It's just… just… it's wrong! That's not how the story goes!"

Arthur's smiling, even if it is an amused-smirk sort of a smile as he pushes the younger nation back onto the couch, and normally that wouldn't work at all but Alfred's sick and so he falls back easily under the push.

"Alright, I understand. Now here is what's going to happen." Alfred moves to protest that but the island nation shuts him up with one of those looks he hasn't used since his colonial days. "You're going to go to your room and sleep - and I do mean sleep, not play video games, or watch the telly, but sleep. I am going to make -" seeing the disgusted look on Alfred's face he quickly corrects that " - buy you some soup, which you will eat when you have woken up. There will be no arguments. Is that understood?"

And that's when it hits him: Arthur isn't reprimanding him. He's not criticizing him or calling him names or even saying anything mildly insulting at all. In fact, he hasn't since he's arrived. With a shock Alfred get's that Arthur's actually being nice to him… that he's… he's taking care of him. A big smile cracks over his features, and he swears that Arthur goes a little pink at that, if only for a moment, even if he can't really see because his face is turned away the second that smile comes into play.

"Sure thing, Iggy!"

So maybe being dependent isn't always bad after all.

* * *

**A/N:**_Well, there it is… So I'm not very good at writing happy things. Or even mildly cute ones. I'm sorry. Anyway, I'm still working on E…. Yet I already have it written. If that makes sense._

_I'll leave it to a vote, but first I'll explain the situation:_

_I've written one pieces. It's a Prussia one but it's… really bad. Like, really, really crak headed crap sorta stuff. It's about eggs, because someone pointed out to me that it was like eating one of his chicks._

_I could get that one to you by tomorrow or the next day._

_Or I could take gods know how long to write you the other one I have in my head, which we have no grantee will be decent: It's supposed to be kid!America and kid!Canada wanting to grow up and their respective caretakers reactions to it. Supposed to be angsty-yet-cute? I don't know if I'll pull it off. It'll take a while most likely, as I have trouble writing colonial!Alfred, and France, period._

_It's up to you!_

_'Eventually' or 'Eggs'?_

_Please vote in a review?_


	5. Eggs

**A/N:** _It's deranged and crappy. Don't hate me, please? Someday I'll write some lovely, sad PrussiaHungary for everyone, okay? And some PrussiaAustria because it makes me happy… and probably some PrussiaRomano simply because I find it strangely satisfying ever since reading the Pros and Cons of Hitchhiking - which is amazing, and you should read._

_But I felt like writing crack here. Please don't hate me?_

_Sorry it sucks..._

* * *

In matters concerning Gilbert, it's usually best to take everything he says - everything he does, really - with a whole shaker of salt rather than the usual grain. Actually, it's usually best to just ignore him completely in the hopes that he will eventually go away, as - unless you are Elizveta and have a live-saving frying pan of terror handy at all times - there is generally no stopping him.

It should also be acknowledged that the ex-nation is rather crazy, and has been since the disbanding of his country. (Arguably he'd lost it long before that, but something further snapped right at that pint, and not even the fellow members of the Bad Company Trio would deny that that most particular screw was more 'permanently lost' than 'lose') As such, violent and senseless behavior should be expected when concerning the albino male.

However, it was considered over the edge even for him when the sight of scrambled eggs sent him into such a frenzy that he broke the table into bits, while screaming about how Hungary had used her damned frying pan to kill off his chicks. Who were, at the time, pecking the remaining shards of the table into even smaller splinters as, apparently, they shared their deranged masters rage.

* * *

**A/N:** _Yeah, it was crack-headed, but YOU voted for it. Next time? Canada! One-sided Canada France, sort of a death fic._

_Forget/Forgotten - title pending._


	6. Fallen

**A.N:** _Okay, so you know how I said it was gonna be a psycho!Canada thing? Well... yeah, now it's not. I wrote that, actually. I have it down. You'll probably see it later on, but this.. isn't that._

_It comes from the same thing, though. It's a WWIII (well, actually, this is about right before WWIII breaks out) scenario that arose from a chat Demented Inu and I were having._

_Basically.... America and England had a GIANT fight. England said something so hurtful that America ran off and slept with France to spite him and.... England got so mad that France touched his boy that he killed him. Bam. Dead. (Well, okay, so maybe France gloated like anything about it and threw it in England's face that he'd deflowered his America and got England mad enough to do it). In any case, Canada managed to get his hands on a few of America's nukes and... well, nuked London. And this is the aftermath of that._

* * *

"England? England! England, please, please don't… you can't go, Arthur, I… I'll rebuild London, make it gleam… and… I'll build you a memorial right in the middle of New York, too… England…." there's a chocked sob from the other end of the line "Arthur, I love you so much, this hurts so bad, you can't… don't… don't go… please"

"I… I'm sorry… Alf-" the man in question tries, but his voice is failing and he falls into hacking and wheezing. There are no more words that can fall from those cracked lips, and nothing but the sound of strained half-breaths get through the connection until those rattle off and fade to nothing as well, and the man is dying, or maybe he's already dead, he can't tell, his body lost all sensation a few minutes ago. And it's almost like he's floating but not, because there's nothing to float in, and he's losing the sound of the phone and the feel of his city beneath him and... it's shifting, changing, and it almost feels, warm, but cold at the same time, like... like iron, iron in the shape of arms, and a sort of cracked smile spreads over his features, because he knows, he _knows_ who's arms those are and he's waited so long to feel them around him again. And somewhere in the man's mind he's sorry that he's leaving Alfred, leaving his boy but…. But he's waited so long to feel these arms again, and it's time, he's been through hell and back and it's _finally_ time. London's darkest day has come, and he kept his promise. And maybe, the man thinks, dying isn't so bad after all.

---

A phone falls from cracked and bleeding fingers, clattering onto the broken steps of what was once St. Paul's cathedral, breaking apart on the stone and falling into static, then silence as the whole broken city loses its noise. This is the part the papers won't report: the whispered hellos coming from the phone before it breaks upon the stone of what used to be one of the grandest cities in the world, the person on the other line or the man, bruised and bloody and dead on those same shattered stones who has no blood relations to pick up his remains and give him a proper resting, who may not even get that burial from the other nations - the only one left that really cares won't have time with what is to come. They won't report how on the one day London needed rain the sun shone bright and traitorous. They won't talk about how all the people who died did so in a senseless act of vengeance from a heartbroken country. And this broken shell that used to be a man, used to be a country, a home, an empire, but most of all a human being... he won't even show up on the death toll.

And the news won't report how, when that man who's so significant that he doesn't even get to be a number in a list of deaths actually died he took all the noise in London with him. They won't report how, his image fading in the light of the sun that shouldn't be shining, his battered and bruised form faded into the light around him. (No one would believe them anyway) They certainly won't say how the last fading image of that nation, empire, man was of him curled up, small as a child, held safely in the arms of a long-dead king. (Only the fairies were around to see it, anyway).

And no one will remember to tell that, just at that last moment, when he finally faded away, it began to rain.

* * *

**A/N:** _And.... there ya go. Written because the world needs more (King)ArthurPendragon/ArthurKirkland in it. Demented Inu wrote some of America's dialogue, which I shamelessly stole and fitted into this. Everything between 'I'll rebuild London' and 'this hurts so bad' as far as America speaking is hers._


	7. Growing

**A/N:** _Thanks to the ever amazing and wonderful Demented Inu who gave me the inspiration for this, whether she knows it or not. And… I shamelessly stole the 'clothes make you big' from a chat we had together, though I tweaked it to suit my uses…_

* * *

"England?"

"Mm?" The Empire turned to look at his colony, and had to work to suppress a chuckle at the sight - an amused smile wasn't preventable, however, and spread over his features as his eyes set upon the small boy. He was dressed in clothes far to big for him, clothes that - on closer inspection - revealed themselves to be England's traveling clothes, and England's rather better pair of shoes.

"America? What on earth are you doing?" The Briton asked, tone laughing and puzzled, face bemused.

"Gettin' bigger." the young colony announced, looking proud of himself as he did so, beaming up at the old Empire.

England laughed at that - it was what he was supposed to do -but his chest was settled with a sudden weight. America's smile faltered slightly at that laugh - _Why did England think it was so funny?_ - and he started to look worried before the elder smiled - he always loved when England smiled - and reached out a hand to ruffle a hair, prompting the boy's waver of doubt to fade.

"By wearing my clothes?" England questioned. America nodded enthusiastically in response. "It doesn't work that way, you know."

"Sure it does!" Alfred argued. "I didn't wear any clothes when I was little and then you found me and made me wear clothes and I got bigger!" he pointed out, kicked off the shoes because he couldn't walk in them, and climbed into England's lap, not waiting for permission to do you. "So there… therefla… therefoot…."

"Therefore?"

"Yeah! That one! Therefore clothes make you bigger."

England chuckled, and America could feel the motion through his back from where he sat on the island nation. He frowned - almost a pout, really - and the expression made it harder for England to quiet his laughter.

"How do you get bigger then?" the question was posed as almost a challenge.

"Well… you expand. You get more land and more people. When you do that you'll grow bigger, but it takes time."

"Oh…." America paused and looked thoughtful at that, then grinned big and spun around on England's lap. "Just you wait, then! I'm gonna expond like you said and get really big and strong, just like the heroes in your stories! I'm gonna be just as big as you some day!"

England put a smile on at that - what else was he supposed to do? - though his chest grew yet heavier. "You do that, America."

He hoped he'd have to wait for a long time yet.

**

* * *

A/N:**_ I know I said I'd put Canada and France in. They wouldn't write. Sorry._

_Also, sorry for the crap of this._

_H is 'Hero'_

_Guess who it's about (You'll be wrong)._


	8. Hero

**A/N:** _Somethings been bugging me lately. This may sound whiny, but...... this is my most favorited and watched story and.... I barely get any reviews for my updates. At all. I can't get better if I don't know what you think of my work. So, if possible, I'd love a review every now and again?  
_

_Well, here's chapter eight, Hero._

* * *

Anyone who had known England for any respectable length of time knew that there was a certain time each day when his doors would be closed to everyone, the phone lines pulled, and no outside interaction would be allowed. This time of solitude was so sacred that even France wouldn't dare disturb it - of course, this could be because France knew exactly what happened during this period of time.

After all, Francis Bonnefoy had his own set times where he would slip away with a bouquet of lilies so quietly that even Matthew would not follow after him.

No one understood England's necessary moments of silence better then France did, just as no one would understand France's silent visits to an unmarked grave better than England did.

No one understood their grief quite so well. No one _could_.

It went without saying - an unwritten rule, of sorts - that while a nation should love all of it's people it was never to fall in love with them. Humans were to mortal, there lives to quick even if they didn't lose them early as the ones involved closely with nations tended to.

There was no greater example of why this is so than Arthur Kirkland who spent close to a full two hours a day locked in a private room polishing ancient pieces of armor.

He was never more delicate than when he handled those legendary relics, movements slow, and steady, lips moving in a one sided conversation with the man he had taken his name from. Some days were worse than others, sometimes his voice would crack and break in the middle of his sentence. Sometimes he would break down and sob, begging an old, un-used sword to tell him when his old King would come back. Sometimes he got angry, would shout at the empty room, demanding to know why he hadn't come back yet, only to fall to his knees, crying and apologizing. (_I didn't mean it, Arthur! I didn't! Just please… please com back… I miss you_)

It was these times that he and a certain understanding Frenchman would put aside their differences and daily spats to drink themselves away from time.

It was for this reason that England would scowl every time America referred himself as a hero. It was for this reason would cynically snap that heroes didn't exist. That he would tell the brash country that he would never be one.

He knew how heroes lived; he knew how heroes fell.

He knew that heroes….

…. didn't have happy endings.

* * *

**A/N:**_ Wasn't about who you thought it'd be about, was it? Answer in a review?_


	9. Irriversible

**A/N:** _Okay, so I wrote this letters drabble over and over and over. Seriously. First it was 'Independent' about Alfred and his revolution and sadness, but I couldn't finish it no matter how hard I tried. Next I tried to do 'Isolation' and it was going to be about Japan…. And then it turned into a Berlin Wall thing that I couldn't get through. Then I tried that last idea again a few times from a few different angles. And I just couldn't get it done._

_Then I remembered the 7th of December - as all good American's are supposed to, neh? - and…it sort of… just wrote itself? Anyway, had it done on the fourth. Couldn't put it up until today, for obvious reasons._

_Remember Pearl Harbor._

_

* * *

_

There was no warning. Nothing.

(Well, Kiku _had_ declared war, but it was so short between the two that it hardly counted)

They were still _sleeping_. Sleeping, damnit! Sleeping, and innocent, and…

And suddenly the bay was alight with flame.

His bay. Burning.

And suddenly America was burning to, with more than the pain exploding in his side as more bombs dropped on his precious harbor. It burned deep into him as he yanked his bomber jacket from it's hook and bolted out the door, wincing each time a new pain flared up in his side. He started out walking as fast as he could, but it wasn't a full moment before he was jogging, then running, then _sprinting_ down the street.

He didn't bother to say hello to the security personnel as he tore through the white house, no time to be caught with memories now. He burst through the doors of the oval office, panting and puffing. His boss was already up - big surprise, considering - and on the phone when he came in, his eyes widened as he looked at Alfred's panting form, taking in the red seeping through his shirt - night shirt, he was still in his damn _pajamas_, didn't have time to change - and spoke quickly into the reciever.

"Yes. Yes. No. … No, I think - look, he just came in - I'll have to call you back." the phone was dropped to it's hook and the President looked up at his country. "Ameri-"

"They - god, the fucking - fucking _Japan_! He- " Alfred tried to puff out. "He just- there was no- He got Pearl Harbor, Boss! He - " but Alfred couldn't go on after that, he was to busy dropping to his knees and clutching at his side to do so. He wasn't all the way down before Roosevelt was moving for him. He hadn't yet come away from his curled up position before his President's arms were around him, holding him in and pulling him.

"I know. I just got word."

"He just - oh… oh…_God_!" Alfred half sobbed, pulling his hand away from his side and noticing for the first time that he was bleeding as it came away sticky with blood. "Oh, God, why? We didn't - We didn't even _do_ anything, sir! Just… just stopped supplying him, but… But that's no reason too… We didn't - Oh, God…!" He was crying now, though he was still burning at the same time, staring at his bloody hand in horror.

"America… Alfred… I… I don't know. Lets get you cleaned up. Well fix up your side now, and well fix up Pearl Harbor as well." Roosevelt coaxed, trying to pull him up.

Alfred didn't move, just stared and stared and stared at his hand for a long moment. After a few tense seconds of this his fist clenched and his eyes narrowed.

"No. No, I can't wait around and let this happen to me anymore. To any of us. My - our - people, or other nations. I - I won't. Not until you say we're going to war with Japan. We can't stay neutral after this! We can't!"

Roosevelt paused and gave a heavy sigh. "No. No, I think our neutrality is over. I think-"

"Don't think. Know! Know, say it! Tell me we'll go to war with Japan! Tell him we'll make him pay for this!"

"Yes… Yes, America. We'll go to war with Japan."

"We will." And that burning was growing stronger, settling in the back of his eyes. "We will, and you'll see. I won't let him get away with this. I'll get him back. I want to hurt him, Boss. I want to hurt him so bad. I'll make him understand that he can't do this to us - to me. I'll makes sure the damage..." he looked at his bloodied fist and carefully drew war lines over his face, following the old designs of his first people.

"It'll be _irreversible_."

* * *

**A/N:** _Well, there you go! 'J' is written as well, so it should be up soon._

_Reviews make me write faster. Some letters are set, but ideas and requests are always welcome._

_I'll do my best to implement them if I get them!_


	10. Jazz

**A/N:**_ Ehhhhh… it's so shooooooooooort!_

_I'm sorry!_

* * *

It was fast and lively and slow and sultry and just… just perfect. _Awesome_. And entirely his.

This wasn't some rip off of another culture. Not something he had borrowed - _stolen_ - from another country and twisted to fit his. It wasn't a borrowed identity. It was him. This music… it was all American. An All American music, and an All American self. Innovation, change, novelty, even his mash-up of other cultures, all of it was in this music. All of it was in _this very song_. And the next one. And it would be in the one after that too. Because all of it was. This music… this was his music. His. Not England's. Not France's, or Spain's, or Mexico. His.

Only his.

'Yeah,' Alfred thought to himself as he leaned back, swirling the drink in his glass - non-alcoholic, he was still considered to young to drink, even by his boss who knew exactly how old he was. '_Yeah. I like this. This is going to be the next big thing, I can feel it._'

He put down his glass to offer his pause to the band and smiled, Texas catching some light in the dim room and flashi_ng._

_'Jazz. Even the _name_ is awesome.'

* * *

_

**A/N:** _I don't like this one, really. I don't. I just… couldn't think of anything else?_

_Jazz was the first set of music that was truly American, without being taken off of somewhere else, one of the pieces of American culture that's just his. I have the feeling that he'd be real attached to it._

_'K' is done, but I don't think I'll post it till the 24th._

_It's FrUK, and a little bit related to Christmas. Well… it takes place on Christmas Eve, anyway. That's about it, but… whatever._


	11. Kitchen

**A/N: **_My first attempt at something AU-ish… Eh…. FrUK that's NOT angsty? My god, the world is ending! Though… I suppose I don't put any of my FrUK stuff up here, do I? Hunh. Maybe I should do that. I love them so much, after all._

_

* * *

_

When Francis came home, the first thing that crossed his mind was how lucky he was the fire alarm had not gone off as he saw the great black cloud coming from the kitchen. The second was that he might have been better off if it did go off. The whole house was slowly filling with a thick black cloud of smoke, and it carried with it the distinct smell of that-which-was-once-food, which could only mean one thing.

Arthur was cooking.

Fearing for his taste buds and his stomach, Francis moved toward the kitchen, ducking under the evidence of the dreadful act being committed in an attempt to keep his hair from being to blackened. It also had the happy effect of keeping his eyes from watering and his throat clear, so he was able to stay silent when he slid up behind the Englishman, busy before the stove, and slide his arms around the other's waist.

"You are cooking, _mon ami_! Have I done something wrong?" the Frenchman asked, a teasing smile on his lips. It only widened as he ducked a spoon thrown at his head.

"Damn Frog!" the 'cook' spat, spinning around to glare at the teasing man. "That's not how you thank someone for making you a meal!"

"A meal? And here I thought you were inventing a new torture device to use in your London Tower."

"It's the _Tower of London_ not _London Tower_, idiot, and my food is perfectly fine! Delicious, even! It's better than bloody frogs legs and snails and whatever other crap you French bastards eat!"

"At least my food isn't a fire hazard!" Francis shot back, having long ago learned not to be insulted by whatever the Brit threw at him in arguments like these.

As if to accent his words, a shrill beeping suddenly filled the house and the sprinkler installed above the two men's heads spluttered to life, drenching both of them in a matter of moments. Francis smirked for a moment, gloating at the fact that even the _house_ seemed to agree with him about Arthur's cooking, but stopped when he noticed that the other was looking more upset than grumpy now. The Frenchman took his chances and slipped in closer, wrapping his arms around the other.

"Just trying to cook a nice meal, for once." the Brit muttered, stiff but leaning into Francis' hold. "Thought it might be nice. Don't have to be a bloody arse about it."

"_Cherie_, I think it might be better if we tried a restaurant, _non_?"

"Idiot. Where are we going to find a restaurant - a nice restaurant - with room for us on Christmas Eve?" Arthur snapped, irritable and wet and disappointed in his utter fail at making a meal.

"Ah, well… I may already have already made reservations for us?"

"Already - ?"

"Mmm… _Oui_. It was going to be a surprise. _Joyeux Noel, mon amour._"

Kissing in a smoking kitchen, being soaked by man-made rain might not have been the ideal romantic situation…

… but neither Francis nor Arthur seemed to mind.

* * *

**A/N:** _Shut up. I can't write fluffy endings, I know. Deal with it, non?_

_Mon ami = my friend  
_

_Cherie = dear/is a term of endearment_

_Oui = yes_

_Joyeux Noel = Merry Christmas_

_Mon amour = my love_

_Happy Christmas, everyone!_


	12. Lost

**A/N: **_Ehhh…. I don't know what to think about this one. It went on longer than I wanted it to._

_However…. Something that doesn't involve England! *le gasp* Someone said they didn't like me writing the same pairings over and over, so I tried to branch out.... and write a pairing that has already appeared, but is less represented here. Eventually I'll try to get some Spamano in here, or maybe some of my crazier pairings that I secretly like....  


* * *

_

Feliciano wasn't stupid.

Oh, he _acted_ stupid. He was _excellent_ at acting stupid. Sometimes he got it down so well even he believed it. Stupid, and happy, and bouncy, and weak. Better that way. Didn't have to think about things that hurt, about people who had left, about all the bad things that happened, had been happening, would happen. Safer.

Can't be hurt by it if you don't know what's going on. Better to surrender. Better to be weak and secure then try to be strong and end up breaking.

So he would be stupid. He would play the fool, and smile and laugh and cry big, fat, fake tears at little cuts until he could forget that they were fake, that he had made them come. Until he really could be Idiot Italy. And everyone else would think he was stupid as well. The Allies would think he was a fool and wouldn't go after him. Japan would think that he was silly and Germany…. Germany would think he was a weak little friend.

That was they key part. That Germany would think him a friendly little fool. That each 'ti amo' would be friend love and not the burning, eat-you-up feeling that filled Italy almost past the brim. So that each kiss was just that, a kiss, not a promise of devotion or adoration. So that he could still hug him freely, and love him openly without betraying the promise he made so many centuries ago to a small boy with dreams of war and expanding into a man.

Feliciano wasn't stupid.

He knew who Germany was. He _knew_. No one could look that similar. The same face, same eyes, an older voice but the same breaks and stops and starts. Italy _knew_.

But Germany didn't.

Germany didn't, and there had to be a reason for that, and so Italy stayed quiet and happy and waited with his big smiles and his silly talk and loved Germany more than he ever should while he was at it.

Sometimes, though…. Sometimes it was hard. Sometimes he wanted to cry, to break down and beg Germany to remember what he might never be able to. Sometimes he lost his faith, was sure that Germany would never remember him has he had been. Sometimes he wanted to throw himself into the others arms and scream out 'Ti amo, ti amo, ti amo, I love you!' until he finally got the message.

Sometimes he slipped up, sat to close and quiet for to long. Watched a bit to closely. Wished a bit to hard and had to run upstairs and lock himself up to paint pictures of his beautiful blue-eyed boy and cry until he couldn't anymore.

Sometimes, when Germany was asleep, Italy would carefully lay a cloth over the others head in a recreation of an old cap that he'd never see again and turn Germany's face towards his, holding it with gentle, artists hands, and just _stare_ until he drifted off into sleep.

One such time Germany stirred under Italy's careful touch. The Italian had meant to move away, but the other's hands caught his wrists and held him in place, those same-but-different blue eyes opening and blinking at him with a groggy sort of quizzicality about them.

"Italia…? What are you doing?"

Italy offered up a smile that Germany had never seen before, a sad little half-a-smile thing that never reached his lonely-lost-wanting-waiting-wanting eyes.

"Nothing. Nothing at all, Doitsu. Ti amo, Doitsu. Go to sleep, okay. I'll go to sleep now too. It was just nothing. Silly Italian things."

_I was just looking at what I'd lost._

* * *

**A/N:** _Well? What did you think?_

_I might do a sudo-continuation of this with 'R' but… maybe not. If you want me too? Or if I get the inspiration for it._

_If I did it'd be 'Remember/Remembrance' and it'd be a Germany-as-HRE getting his memories back sort of thing…_

_This actually comes from what I wrote for 'S' - obviously not up yet, which deals with the lock-himself-upstairs-and-paint bit that was mentioned here._

_Anyway, I hope you liked it!_

_'M' was written shortly after 'B' was, actually. It's random and short and about Chibitalia listening to Austria play music. I don't like it so much though, so I wrote another one. It's about England taking care of colony!America and involves using 'America the Beautiful' being used as a lullaby. Vote for which one you want! In a review!_

_Reviews make me update faster!_

_Happy Christmas!  
_


	13. Melody

**A/N:**_Ehhhhh….. I wrote something else - for the same prompt word, actually - shortly after I wrote 'Bubbles' but….. I don't really like it. And then I was putting my brother down for the night, and he'll only go to sleep if I rock him and sing to him, but he was taking forever to get down, so I had exhausted my repertoire of Christmas Carols and show tunes (that I could actually sing, because I've got nearly endless knowledge of show tunes), so I went on to the ones my sister learns in choir - a large plethora of patriotic songs about the US. And he fell asleep to 'America the Beautiful.' Which inspired this._

_And… yes. You voted. You voted for the other one I wrote. And I gave you this anyway. Why? Because I was inspired and because I can. So… Ha? Also, I accidentally deleted the other. Eh heh heh..._

_And so, with the long and pointless Author Note out of the way…._

* * *

"_Oh beautiful, for spacious skies_

_For amber waves of grain_"

The tune is familiar, even if the words are changed, and not as well sung as some of his people might have managed. Arthur's voice has just a hint of gruffness behind it, scratched over from trying that tobacco the boy had discovered - it's not quite to his taste, and he prefers the leaves his own people burn in pipes, but Alfred had looked so proud presenting it to him when he arrived that of course he had tried it. The young colony doesn't seem to mind the awkwardness of the tone - in fact, he doesn't seem to mind anything at all. Not that such a thing is surprising - the young colony fell to sleep when Arthur was still humming the tune instead of adding words. He's stopped shifting, and England's standing now to take him over to his bed - a bed, already, he's quite outgrown his crib, a fact which makes the elder frown as he continues in his made up verse.

-

"_For purple mountains majesty_

_Above the fruited plains_"

Alfred is larger now, to big to rock gently in England's arms until he falls into sleep, but it doesn't stop the aging empire from stroking his hair back with gentle fingers and singing under his breath after the other has fallen into sleep. His fingers are callused as he brushes the hair from his charge's forehead, but his face is gentle, and his voice is more used to the song he's used to put the colony down, though Alfred no longer asks for it anymore. He doesn't even want stories now, not for going to bed. '_Bedtime stories are for kids, and I'm not a kid anymore! You can tell me daytime stories about knights later, England, but I can put myself to sleep!_'

-

"America? America!"

Shells are raining like death onto London's streets and England's in a blind panic. That fool boy had piloted in - without his boss' permission, under his brother's name! - in the middle of an air-raid, and the greeting he'd received was a shot to his right wing. England's fighter had hit the ground in a matter of moments and he had been out of the cock-pit before the wheels hit land, leaving his co-pilot to navigate the rest of the landing. From there it was a mad dash across the landing pad to where the plane was going up in flames. Ignoring the burning feeling along his arms England tore at the door to the cockpit, in a dead-set panic when he found only one charred body inside, unable to realise in his state that the form was to slight to be Alfred. It wasn't until a hand tapped on his shoulder then spun him full around till he realized that the other wasn't burned - couldn'tbe, he was a nation, they didn't die so easily.

''I shed my grace on you?" Alfred mis-quoted with a cocky smile as Arthur gaped up at him.

England didn't know if he wanted to kick him or kiss him for that. There was no time for either.

-

"_And crown thy good_

_With brotherhood_"

The war was over, even if the damages still weren't all repaired. Alfred had worked himself into such a panic over Ivan that he was practically foaming at the mouth when England last saw him, which was what led him to visit the other - 'maintaining diplomatic relationships' - though he ended up having to break into the house - which was a great deal harder than he'd expected, and he was greatful with his years of piracy to help him with the breaking locks business - only to find the other passed out on his couch, circles under his eyes so dark they looked full-on black. He had pulled a blanket from out of the cabinet and laid it over the boy and was about to make a hasty retreat when a large hand closed over his wrist, causing him to startle and spin it about.

"You didn't finish." Alfred's voice was sleepy, as if he still fancied himself in a dream. Arthur, for his part, was deep crimson.

"Wh-what?"

"You didn't finish. You stopped at 'brotherhood.' You have to finish." as if that was all that mattered here. But… maybe it was.

For all the practice he'd had with the song over the years England's voice was just as cracked and fumbled as it was the first time as he finished off the song, but it seemed Alfred was contented by it now as he was then as he dropped back into the slumber he'd been in when England had found him. England was gone by morning.

-

"Oh-! Al-Alfred…!"

It had taken years. Decades, even. Nevertheless, after over two centuries of bickering and sending mixed-signals that were only half interpreted on either side, the unresolved-sexual-tension that had so engulfed the two of them was finally, well, being resolved. Arthur was at the bursting point - should have been _past_ it by now, really - when Alfred stopped both their motions with a breathless laugh and a half-panted comment.

"You - heh - that's not h-how it… goes!"

"What?" Even for all the panting and general distracted nature of the conversation-that-shouldn't-be Arthur managed to get that out sharp and clear.

"It's 'oh beautiful' -ngh- not 'oh, Alfred!' thou-hah- though I don't mind the change…!"

Yet again Arthur found himself torn between striking the younger nation and snogging him. This time, he chose to do both.

* * *

**A/N: **_Was that lame or what? Wanna know something scary? It's better than the original thing I was going to post was!_

_Next time we get a break from all the UK-based stuff that's been shoved down your throat. Back in chapter five I promised y'all some PrussiaHungary, neh? Well… I'm not sure if this qualifies, but that's what it'll be!_

_And some Germany stuff after that - though it's not pretty, and I apologise in advance._

_Then… yeah. Another rush of England based things. What can I say, I'm obsessed?_

_I know I promised… someone… some LietPol (actually, PolLiet, but eh...). And you shall get it! It's coming up in 'S' unless I decide to change it to 'U' but it is written, and it is coming and it is NOT happy. At all. I'm considering writing a second one for 'S' that's also PolLiet and moving the current one to 'U' but neither will be nice. If I do a different one for 'S' though it'll be half RussiaToris at least. And it will be lovely and painful and all that good stuff._

_And… yes. I know the last bit of this one was lame. Maybe someday I'll write some actually UKUS smut for y'all? If you ask really nicely. Though… it /will/ be UKUS /not/ USUK. England tops, damnit!_

_Anyway, tell me what you thought in a review!_


	14. Nuptials

**A/N: **_It's short. It's crappy. I'll cover it up with an update by midnight for y'all. O is WAY better, anyway...._

* * *

They didn't invite him.

It wasn't even a discussion - he would not go, he wouldn't be invited.

Not that he would have gone (he would have been the first one there, lingering in the background until he could show up late to try to pass off the fact that he didn't care). Not that he was even aware of the date (not written down anywhere because putting it in pen made it painfully real, but burned into the back of his mind so strong he'd likely never be able to forget) or the location (he had staked it out for days after he learned then avoided the place like the plague that took so many of his siblings) or anything else (the dress her people made for her by hand, the cake he lingered over the making of so long that it fell to him to bake - nothing else would do anyway - the waltz he saw them practicing through the second story window, the music so carefully decided over, he could go on, from vows to flowers to hand-written invitations, but then again he had never even started, had he?).

No, no he didn't even _want_ to go to the damn thing (this much, at least, was true, he didn't want the damn thing to take place, so he certainly didn't want to go). Didn't want to see (see her smiling for someone else, his eyes lighting up in a way not even the piano could cause, them standing togethertogether_togther_ without him). Didn't want to so much as _think_ (because if he thought about it, it was real).

No, of course he didn't want to go - he was to awesome for weddings anyway. To stuffy, and this one promised to be especially so, given who was doing the majority of the planning for it. It even made sense not to invite him (but that didn't mean that it didn't hurt).

* * *

**A/N:**_ Yeah. I can't write Prussia, but... eh. I promised someone or other PrussiaHungary and this was the closest I could get. Don't hate me for it?_

_Review, if you have time! Please?  
_


	15. Orders

**A/N: **_Orders! This one was FUN to write. I felt like such a bad person....! Which is usually a good thing? About the North Italian Slaughters..... End of WWIIish._  


* * *

They were falling by the seconds - not his men, of course, he'd lost next to none of them. Few of the enemy's men did a thing to stop him - many had even turned to help rather than face his guns. The majority of the others turned and ran rather than picking up arms to resist - it didn't matter, they all three sects, traitor, deserter, and fighter were gunned down alike.

One man fell to his knees before him, crying and pleading with words so rapidly spewed that it was nearly impossible to understand them. The barrel of his luger was placed calmly to the sobbing man's for head, but as his trigger finger tightened down the man holding the weapon hesitated for the first time since the attack had started.

The man on his knees was soft of face, rounded features framed by a head of light brown hair. His eyes would be equally brown, most likely, if they were open enough to be seen and if no tears clouded that sight. Soft hands that had quite clearly never held a gun before now clutched at the uniform of his would-be-killer.

His voice was high with just a bit of a whine behind the pleading and fear as he whimpered out, "Why are you doing this to us?"

For a second the commanding officer's heart stilled, mind catching, freezing as he looked down at the pitiful man and it looked as if some mercy might be found there. In the next second everything steeled over again - _there is no reason for hesitation here, he is just a man, not even a man but an obstacle, and there are important things that must be accomplished. Obstacles must be removed._

"Just following orders." Germany said in a clipped tone, and any apology or regret that might have been hidden in the worse were covered by the resounding sound of a bullet finding it's way through human skull.

* * *

**A/N:** _There you go. And on time, as I promised! So there! Enjoy and review, please!_


	16. Pan

**A/N: **_Ah, yes, more crappy things! Your break from England is over, I'm sorry. 'Q' and 'R' are his as well - though 'R' was almost Spain.... it might still be if I can find a more fitting word for what I've got written now..._**  
**

* * *

Peter Pan is one of the most beloved novels in London, England. From the famous statue and playground in Kensington Gardens, to the scattered productions of it's theatrical embodiment, to the influx of tourists that stop by the house of J.M. Barrie. It is safe to assume that there is next to no one over six who hasn't heard of the boy who never grew up.

What is less known, or not known at all, is that Barrie got it all wrong.

Peter Pan was a real boy but there was no chance that he would stay so young. He had sky blue eyes and corn-silk hair and he didn't learn to fly until well after he had cast of the airs of boyhood for the thrill of being a 'man.' No, there was nothing more he wanted than to grow up.

Neverland was just land, and the Indians were bound for camps while lost boys thought themselves found and learned to carry guns and wear suits of richest blue, pirate-fathers be damned. And if there were ever faeries the boy-who-shouldn't-grow-up never saw them, let alone called any friends (Faeries are for little kids, Arthur, little kids and babies).

Peter Pan is one of the most loved novels in London - but when England reads it he cries.

* * *

**A/N: **_There we go! It's not really great but... hey, at least I'm giving you loads of updates, neh?_

_Review, please. More reviews means more writing....  
_


	17. Queen

**A/N:**_ Oh, England, when will you ever learn....?_

_Sorry this took so long, computer has been finky. Better now. Lets make England sad to celebrate!  
_

* * *

When she first took throne all of England hated her, they looked up to the red-haired woman who had claimed the crown with spite - it would take the people months upon months to become smitten with their new lady, but Arthur Kirkland found his heart taken by her all together much to quickly.

Whore, strumpet, tart, liar, witch, tool, tease! the voices of his people chanted in the back of England's mind. Loyal, strong, stunning, dedicated, wondrous, beautiful, brilliant! his far to human thoughts would counter. From the moment she walked into that long hall he was possessed by her. Beyond the admittedly stunning beauty that her deep red locks lent her those eyes held the world and more besides.

Never had he known someone so dedicated to him and his as she. Again and again he watched her turn back every possible suitor, giving them his title as the name she loved. England. She loved England. He couldn't help but wonder if she could ever love Arthur as well.

He had asked her countless times after everyone else had to bed, as he combed his fingers through her hair - through it's original thickness into the years as it grew thin - and it ever grew difficult to hold his hopes in place at the corner of her lips would lift just slightly at the corner when she would respond, "I have told you, my heart belongs to England."

It took still years after that to realise exactly what he was to her, and yet another two to convince her to give him her hand, even if it was only in a silenced St. Paul's with no one but them and a preacher. Even if he could never wear the ring about his finger, it never came away from the chain about his neck until that chain rusted and he had to find another, and another as years went on.

And to this day, no matter how many hands he kissed on coronation day, or how many times he would bow to the new lady of his land, or how many times the lyrics of God Save Our Queen fell from his lips that ring still hung cold against his chest and he knew that there would only ever be one true Queen of England.

* * *

**A/N: **_The next one iwll hurt him even _more_! Isn't that lovely?_

_Put out really quickly.... ehhhh...._

_Please to enjoy and review?_


	18. Rooms

**A/N: **_What's that? I've hurt England even more? Indeed! Unbetaed because no one will edit for me. T.T_**  
**

* * *

England's house is large, even for a country, though it may not look so from the outside. He needs it to be, for the family reunions where Scotland makes it reek of alcohol, and the Irelands break his furniture while New Zealand and Australia cheer one or the other on until they two turn to brawling themselves. Needless to say it has more winding halls and odd passages than the British Museum. Indeed, enough to keep the colonial America entertained when he was taken to the big house. But even Alfred has not discovered what lies behind all of the rooms in that grand house - no, there is one hall kept in a state of near-perfect repair that no one but England has ever been allowed to go down. Not even Francis has seen behind the four great doors kept along that way, though he more than anyone might have some small inkling to what some of them might hold.

Not even the faeries dare to try going back into the well kept rooms along that hall, and while England will frequent the boards before each door even he has trouble going past some of them. It takes a great deal of time for him to push past the threshold, and for one of the four rooms found there it's all he's managed. Nearest to the open end of the hall, to the rest of the house, he'll sit in the doorway when the rain has grown to thick to bear, several bottles of heavy drink - brandy, scotch, bourbon, and gin - about him. He'll finger the edges of the rug laid out below the small cot of a bet, fitted with the best mattress of it's time, he'll look up at the scratch drawings on yellowing parchment that line the walls and the toys that still littler the floor - he never was good at putting his things away. He'll stare at the child's room that will never be used again and see a form that will never be so little again run about the room and laugh and smile, and he'll stare until the image fades or grows to clear to watch any longer, until he can't look, until he turns his eyes away and lets out wrenching sobs, broken cries that wrack his whole body until he's nothing but a shaking pile of tears and flesh upon the floor.

More opened is the delicately carved door across the way, painted white with a polished brass knob and careful carvings along door and frame. On days when he remembers strongest the smell of wild roses and powder rooms, or when the girl behind the counter at the tea house down the road has eyes that look just a bit to much like the shining grey-green of old Queen's or when her hair catches the sun in just the way to make it look like flame, when the ring strung about his neck weighs down heavier than a small piece of gold and jade should be able to, those are the days he comes here. He does not bother to drink -she had never approved of such - and he sees no phantom lady moving about the rooms he'd had re-created here, but that doesn't stop him from taking down the gown of white that only he got to see her wear. It doesn't stop him from holding it close as he falls upon the bed that was considered soft for it's time, and it certainly doesn't stop the silent tears that fall into the material he's spent so much time and care preserving. It doesn't stop him from pulling the ring off that chain about his neck to hold it on his finger as he never could wear it, from running his fingers over the engravings and from repeating the vows over and over, always cutting out over the last line - "until death do us part."

The third door down is rarely opened, and when it is he's more of a wreck than when he sits in the doorway of the first. His breath is always thick with the scent of rum, and he throws the door to the hull-turned-chamber found within open with enough force that he's had to have her repaired on countless occasion. When he runs in here he is cursing Spain and the Sea and his brother and above all everything French until he has no more words left in him, nor the ability to say any that he might find. He screams and throws about old bits of sails and maps he'll never use again, old hats and cutlasses and any number of nautical paraphernalia that he once used to drive off his own happiness. He will curse his voice away until he can do nothing more than drop to his knees in the hull of his old ship and read over letter after letter, lips moving in the echoing sounds of his pained rage. Until he can do nothing but read over words he's never been able to forget, and pretend that the man who wrote them meant what he said. Until he falls into a drunken sleep surrounded by memories he can never throw out, dreaming of a time when he was still 'mon amour Angleterre.'

The last room, at the end of the hall, has never seen him so broken as all that, or perhaps has witnessed a much deeper crack in the Englishmen. In there he allows his faerie friends, though they refuse to enter. To that hall he makes a regular, almost religious pilgrimage, to set down and carefully keep polished and bright each and every artifact he has collected, from the most famous sword kept safe in the center next to it's sheath, to the armor kept standing by the wall, to the iron shoe he once played toss with as a not-child. Here he smoothes out robes and sits at a seat with the name that shouldn't be his at the back of it, looking over a huge table where no one now will sit. He touches with reverent delicacy each precious object from a time when he could laugh and whispers the happening of the day. He informs ears that have been deaf for centuries about his accomplishments and failings with the hope of praise carried in the heart of young children speaking to someone they've looked up to all their life, and at the same time with the familiarity and warmth adopted when talking to one with whom love if shared. Here he promises, and pleads, and waits for a king who will never return.

England's house is large, but it's too small for him to escape the feel of ghost-filled rooms and empty halls.

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**A/N:**_ Review or I hold my Toris chapter captive!_


	19. Silence

**A/N:**_ So. Wow. This took a long time. I'm soooooooooo sorry this took so long. I. Kinda. Died a bit. Good news, though! the next two are already written!_

_And. Hey. Look. Something NOT about England._

_This is unbeta'd. Mostly because I wrote it about five minutes before posting and decided I liked it so put it up here, instead of 'Sin' which is actually half written and someday I'll have to put up anyway. Probably lengthened out and as a one-shottish thing. It's Dark!SpainChibi!Romano. Tell me if you'd like to see it? Anyway. Enjoy.  
_

* * *

Exactly the day a funeral shouldn't be on. No rain. No gloom. Not a cloud in the sky but rather the sharp clarity that comes on a cold, clear day. Not the kind of filling a funeral should have, either. Soldiers - remainders of the Prussian Front - six of them carrying in the casket and laying it down before scattering like so many leaves on a windy morn. A brother, with no flowers and awkward words said over a grave for no one to hear who covered over his brother final home with his own hands and help from no one. Who stood there and didn't say everything that he should have when someone could hear him.

Just that and a dirge so soft it could be heard only in the hearts of those who knew it, and played by hands miles away in Vienna while a woman who couldn't bear her heart to come looked on over the player and wondered where everything they three once had was lost.

No waves of tears or deafening sobs.

Just a single man, standing there with regrets and if onlys, until he, too, turns away and fades off into the distance, and nothing more remains on that hill but a mound of dirt and a headstone to mark the passing of one who was more than a man, but still less than time.

* * *

**A/N:**_ Yeah. I did a Prussia death fic, if you couldn't tell. Couldn't help myself._


	20. Torched

**A/N: **_The Battle for Britain! Yes. Another Arthur one. I can't help myself. This is one of my favourite things to study. So of course I had to write on it._

* * *

London was burning.

The sky was clouded thick and black, heavy with the smell of throat-burning smoke, and pain and death, the air weighed down with silent tears and screams that wouldn't leave their owners throats. The streets were willed with rubble and soot and to many bodies, houses were half-standing and the Thames was thick-swirling with the blood of his people. His children were fleeing, his people were dying and London was burning.

And he couldn't bring himself to care.

The Island Sanctuary that had provided him such freedom to act in previous decades meant nothing when death could rain from the sky. There was no holding of the Channel when crossing it was as simple as jumping into a cockpit, and the seas he had so proudly owned were next to nothing when man_ flew_. There used to be a freedom brought with this separation, but now all of England was forced to huddle like conies in a hole and watch as death rained down in waves. His worst friend and best enemy was just thirty-four kilometers away under the thumb of the Reich and all Arthur Kirkland could do was sit, and watch and wait.

And burn.

In Tobruk another transport fell in the attempt to supply the members of his commonwealth the necessary that would let them keep Africa held - twenty men, gone, and he felt every death as if it were his own. In India a young sergeant - just promoted, no children yet but a wife in Liverpool, England could find her too, if he had the mind to - loses the mark of his promotion along with half his head unde machine gun fire. In the trenches eight of his men have failed to pull masks on in time and Arthur's throat tries to bloat with theirs, his face turns a terrible purple with theirs and for a moment he suffocates with them and in the next he's thrown back here into his own city, three doors away from where he now stands to the bed of a young soldier - _sixteen, two years under the age requirement, Tommy Randoff, enlisted the day he was to be sent to the country with his sister_ his brain supplies for him. _Likes pan au chocolate and horseback riding, best mates with Ronald Ber_- he cuts off the liteny and for a moment is relieved. Tommy is loosing his leg, he can hear the shouts in his actual ears from where he stands, but he will live, and that is some small relief.

"Mr. Kirkland! England!" the voice that snaps him out of his travels through the fleeting minds of his people is sharp, but made raspy from a life time of smoking thick cigars. Not that he's one to talk, he's been living off fags to dim his nations senses - he's tired of feeling them die. Arthur, England - the nation or the man because he's not sure how to differentiate the two right now, all he knows is that both are screaming for an end to all this death and pain - looks up, head snapping to attention, eyes focusing once again on the over-round man before him. His nose crinkles up at the heavy smell of drink on his Boss' breath, but he's no better with the heavy smell of smoke so stuck to his skin he's not sure it will ever come out.

"Sorry?" His voice is equally rasped, cracking over the single word. He was supposed to be looking for something in himself. In London, but what -

"St. Pauls! Is it standing?" Churchill's voice is angry - he always did have a penchant for yelling at… well, just about everyone - and he's going on about how England needs to keep his head about him until he abruptly stops to question, "Well?" in a demanding tone.

What's the point of asking if St. Paul's stands? He can't help but think. What does it matter if it's standing or not if there's no one standing with it? It was tempting to shout as much out, but his answer was a simple, "Yes."

He was going to continue. He could see Churchill filling with his next snapping remark, and that's when he snapped and broke protocol in a way he would never dare do before now. He couldn't deal with it just now - in an hour, maybe, maybe, but now he needed to be out there, o rin there, or doing something. He could not sit here idle while his city burned. He could not stand under a roof in well-kept quarters while his people fell across Europe. He didn't rest between air raids, spending his minutes, hours, days feeling out for the next time his air would be penetrated, waiting for the next time he'd be allowed to dash out and find his own fighter, for the moments he could give up the skin of England and be just Arthur, just Arthur defending beside his people. That was how it had gone for days upon days until the semi-mortal state of his being would force him into sleep. But it was hell to wait between those time, and his fingers itched with the need to be busied.

Without a word he strode past Churchill, who was going into a lengthy rant of what was to be done about the Enigma and England was quite sure he heard a word or two about re-locating him to the war rooms below Tenth Downing, which only served to quicken his pace. He only stilled at a barked out "Where do you think your off to?"

"Out." He said, stiff and in-formal. There was no place for formality in a world that was crashing down. "You don't need me here to make up your mind - you've bloody well done that already, my input one change it a lick - and my hands are put to better use elsewhere." With that he turned on his heel and marched smartly out, not bothering to stop the door on it's rapid swing to shut. He'd be reprimanded for it later, he was sure, but at this moment he had a soldier to tend to in the infirmary, plans to check over to make sure they were working, and a million and three other tasks to set his over-busied brain to.

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**A/N:**_ There should be historical notes. But I'm lazy as hell._

_This was written ages ago, so there may be errors and it may be edited strange. Tell me if you catch something._

_U, V, W written, X planned out._

_Wanna know what they're called?_


	21. Ugly

_A/N: I exist! That's right. I still exist. Hello. Wow. Been a long time hasn't it. Anyone still with me? Now I know I promised someone some LietPol/PolLiet somewhere early on. So. Here you are. Do enjoy, darlings! Sorry for the absence!_

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It wasn't as if he'd been putting it off. Oh, no, not at all, Feliks would never do that! He was just air-headed sometimes. That was the only reason that he hadn't been around, that he hadn't been knocking down his friend's door - his _best_ friend, above everything else, his friend in the rye fields, his _Litwa_, his _Liet_. There was no connection to the fact that when he had first seen him after that freedom had been reached there was no Liet in his eyes, only Toris. No, nothing at all.

It wasn't out of shame for the fact that Feliks could do nothing for his friend while his dearest friend sat in the over-tight grip of that monster-man Ivan. That he just stood there - fell there, crumpled and useless and useless - and watched him be taken away while he did nothing. It wasn't that he was scared of Russia. He truly wasn't, though he was called a fool for it. It was just that he couldn't do anything. Couldn't help, couldn't try, couldn't even be there.

It also had no relation to the fact that his face was still bruised and bloodied and so very _ugly_ from both Russian and German hands. No, there was no connection to the mars that had refused to fade on his well-kept skin. Feliks couldn't stand ugly things, but loved the beautiful. That's why he had mirrors all over his - pink! - house, why he put so much care into how he looked every morning and made sure everything was perfectly arranged even if only he would see it. Especially if only he would see it. It was also why every mirror that hadn't been smashed had been covered in his home, and why over half the money he made went into thousand little tubes of cover up. 'Out of sight out of mind' was the saying, wasn't it? And Feliks made double sure that no ugly reminders would be able to catch his eye.

That's why he didn't frown as he traded out outfits for the fifth time that morning. Frowning caused wrinkles, frown lines, mars. Ugly ugly ugly, he wouldn't let himself be ugly. Light fingers pressed to the back of his scalp, where the knot had yet to go away, a horrible mar, but at least he could hide it fairly easily. Golden locks were flipped over his shoulder and smoothed down, blow-dried to make them fly out more in the back, and while he would normally detest the fly-away that this created (there's a reason he uses a straightening iron - flat hair looks more chic, and far better on him), but… it was far easier to hide any unsightly bumps when the contours of the head were hidden behind a mask of hair.

It was only because he wanted to look his best for Liet that he spent twice as long as usual dressing, not to cover up any lingering blemishes that might still exist. He was only making sure that he looked good for him. Perfect. Like before, like back when they grew up when the days were all warm and bellies were always full but not stretched. When nights lasted forever and they would stay up for hours and talk and laugh. When the rye fields always smelled sweet and the sun hit the stalks just right so everything turned to gold. Back when every single day was _beautiful_, and so were they.

And that was why it had been over two and a half years since he had so much as seen Liet - he had, of course, run out to see him first thing once he heard his friend was out, free, finally, and he heard quick, gossip hit Feliks before it hit anywhere else. Of course he had thrown open the doors and rushed out, fully planning to bang on his door until he was let in and pick up exactly where they had dropped off in a time that seemed forever ago.

Then he had remembered. Remembered that his hair was unbrushed and his head had a knob on it so large that he still couldn't cover it right, even with all the practice he'd had. That his face was bruised and his lip was fat and that he looked disgusting, dirty, _ugly_.

Then he had remembered, too, that his Liet wouldn't care about that, even if Feliks himself would feel gritty and terrible about it. And then he was full set to open the door anyway, because if anyone could see him ungroomed it would be Liet. And it was in that moment of decision that he saw Lithuania.

Lithuania, not Liet. Not Litwa. Not his friend from the rye fields. There was no Liet in that form, it was all Toris. Cowering, trembling at each little strangeness. Here was not the one he'd longed to see, who he'd been waiting for and left the house in tennis shoes and a hoodie and _sweats_ to see. Here was no old friend, no dear one held close in his mind and heard, a precious memory waiting to be let out. He didn't know this broken body of a man, pale, gaunt, not even a shadow of his Liet, his _Litwa_. Liet he knew. Not… not this _stranger_…!

And Feliks ran. He ran until he couldn't anymore, until he dropped to his knees inside the doorway to his house and cried. And he cried until he gagged, until he choked on his own tears and had to run again, a stumble-run that took no account for little vintage-looking (in truth they were genuine antiques that he'd had around for ages but had put away until they were cute and fashionable again) tables and chairs and furnishing, until he was crouched over his toilet heaving out nothing.

Because he had seen. Because he had seen and been disgusted with more than just himself. And because he knew. He _knew_.

Liet, his darling, precious Liet who he loved above all else, who he held the highest image in his head and longed for, waited for… Liet was beautiful. But Liet was gone, and in his place was this… this trembling, twisted _thing_ called Toris.

And he was unbelievably _ugly_.

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_A/N: Reviews make my heart soar. Some even think they make me write more!_


	22. Victory

_A/N: Hey guys! Wow, onto V now. Almost done, it's kind of scary. Okay, this is _the_ shortest drabble I've ever written, but I think it's finished. Short. Yes. So short, I know. But. It's completely finished in only eight words._

_Now before you go into this... you need to look at it through the right eyes._

_This is about the Revolutionary War. It's Alfred's POV. That's all you should need to know._

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Never before had victory felt so much like defeat.

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_And there you are. The shortest fic you'll ever see me write._

_W is Waiting, and it's the continuation of my earlier Feliciano fic, it's Feliciano - Germany, ChibitaliaHRE. I wrote it at the veeeeeeeery beginning of this, at the same time I wrote A and B, I've been waiting on it for a loooooooong time and I'm really excited to post it..._

_Review and I'll love you forever~_


	23. Waiting

**A/N:** I know originally it was going to be R for this (Remembrance) but I had to do Rooms. But here, the (somewhat long awaited) continuation of L: Lost. Waiting. GerIta, HREChibitalia. I told you it'd be coming! Sorry I took so long to get this out, FF was being... difficult about it. Do enjoy! And review, if you have the time and the will!

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"Italia?"

Italy jumped at the sudden sound - not that strange, coming from him - throwing his paintbrush into the air and yelping at this new terror as he spun, white flag in hand and waving...

___SMACK_

… well, _trying_ to wave , though it was having trouble moving through Germany's head. He ceased his frantic waving when he registered that this was Germany and not, say, England. He laughed a little - a faded sort of noise, because even if he trusted Germany inherently and knew the other nation would never hurt him he was still really scary when he was angry - and smiled apologetically up at him.

"Sorry, Ludwig! You scared me!"

Germany sighed. Really, there was no point, was there?

"Italia, what are you doing up here? It's past time to start training, and… why is your face blue?"

That flying paintbrush from before had left a convenient navy streak right down Italy's face.

"I was painting…. I didn't really pay attention to the time…. I don't want to train today, Ludwig, can't we take the day off?"

"_Nein._"

"Plllllleeeeeeaaaaaase?"

"_Nein_! Italia, you have to train or you'll never get stronger!"

"But… just a little break then?"

"_Ne_-"

"I'll… I'll even let you see what I was painting!" He was giving that face now. That one that made Germany feel that saying no to it would be the same as kicking one of his beloved dogs in the face with his combat boots and feeding them tacks.

There really _was_ no point, he decided.

"…. Fine. What were you painting." He didn't really _ask_ it as much as he sighed the words out.

Italy seemed to hesitate for a moment - which was odd; normally he quite liked showing Germany what he was painting, but the Arian man brushed it off as the fact that Feliciano probably thought Germany was mad at him. In any case, the little nation stepped aside to reveal a half-painted canvas. It depicted two… children, would be the best way to word it, though they gave of the air of being quite a bit older than normal children, and were dressed similarly to adults of a time period long lost. The girl was smiling, but both managed to look almost devastatingly sad at the same time, as if mourning an event which had not yet occurred. It was, however, not this which caused Germany's breath to catch as his eyes settled on the nearly-finished piece. He couldn't quite place it, but something about the picture was achingly familiar, and he couldn't stop himself before a quiet,

"Who are they?" made its way from his lips.

If the painted figures looked sad, Italy looked downright tragic. Nonetheless, the small nation put on a small wistful looking smile as he turned to Germany to answer. "They… they're from a… a story I used to like when I was younger." he explained. Germany got the feeling that that wasn't quite right, but as that made absolutely no sense he didn't put up words to the feeling.

"They were - are - in love," the normally bubbly nation was continuing in a soft voice, looking for once in his life serious and sorrowful as he gazed at the painting, eyes resting on the boy clad in a navy robe and cape. "But they didn't tell each other for a long time. This is from near the end of the… of the story. The boy is going off to a big war, but he's promising to come back. He's finally telling m-the girl that he loves… her. And she's promising to wait, because she loves him too."

And Germany doesn't particularly like stories, and this isn't even really much of one at all, and he especially doesn't like things that make Italy look so sad - not out of any sense of romance, mind you, he's simply looking out for his ally, that's all - but something in him drives him to ask,

"What happened?"

And maybe that was the wrong thing to do because Italy looks a million miles away and like he's about to cover all those million miles in tears, and he's about to say it's all right, he doesn't have to answer or even train and _maybe it's okay to take a day off just don't look so sad, please_ when the Italian opens his mouth and answers,

"What happened? Nothing. She's still waiting."

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**A/N: **Well? What'd ya think? This is unbeta'd so if you have any feedback I'd more than love to hear it!

X is probably gonna be about Tony unless anyone has a better suggestion!


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